


Meet (Un)Cute

by TangentiaLives



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Idiots in Love, Meet-Cute, lots of fluff, why do these two make me so irrationally happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangentiaLives/pseuds/TangentiaLives
Summary: Merlin, she was the worst flyer he'd ever seen, and that was saying a lot.Viktor and Hermione help each other face their fears and fall for each other along the way.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum
Comments: 41
Kudos: 242





	1. The Curious Incident of the Girl and the Broom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReineP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReineP/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to ReineP, who won the ficlet giveaway for my 150 followers give away for Hunting Shadows. She mentioned meet cute, and this story contains not one, but two of them. Idk, yolo. Hope you like it, ReineP!
> 
> Note: It is complete at 3 chapters, which I'll finish getting up by the end of this week. 
> 
> P.S. This story does not take itself seriously whatsoever (I have done no research and made no timelines) and is totally gratuitous fluff. The other working title was 'the adventures of broomstick girl and boggart boy' no I'm not even kidding lol smh these two idiots kill me...with love <3 <3

The crisp fall air was a relief to Viktor, who had been hoping for a day such as this to go flying. The past few days had been rather wretched, with howling winds and sheets of rain. Even he, who was willing to go flying in the most inclement weather, found himself dissuaded. Scotland, it seemed, was far more dreary than he had expected. The weather was poor, the castle was grey and damp, and the students were all too starstruck to hold an intelligent conversation about anything but Quidditch. 

Not that he disliked Quidditch, mind you, but to be pigeonholed as a one subject wizard was rather disheartening. He had other interests, but nobody outside of the Durmstrang delegation seemed interested in discussing them with him, preferring instead to lurk from a distance and watch him with wide eyes. Those brave enough to approach were typically stuck on his title of Most Brilliant Flyer of the Twentieth Century and tended to ask for autographs, flying advice, or a combination of the two. 

Really, it was rather depressing, and he was stuck here for seven more months with them. Perhaps even more alarming was the looming spectre of fighting a dragon, which would happen in the next few weeks. 

In short, things were not looking up.

In a sudden burst of misplaced optimism, he looked out the library window in the hopes that it still wasn’t raining in sheets so he could go flying.

It was. 

He sighed and scooted forward in his chair a bit, bending over the  _ Grimoire of Moste Fearce and Foule Beasts _ . While the spelling in the ancient tome left much to be desired, he hoped it would keep him alive and distract him from the two girls he could hear giggling three rows down in the Herbology section. 

An hour or so later, it was nearing lunch time, his back was hurting, and the rain had stopped. 

The cursory look he had cast at the window was so brief he had to look again. Once he was convinced that it had, in fact, stopped raining, he was out of the library like a shot, the giggling girls, dragons, and a small amount of self-pity left behind in favor of the outdoors.

Once he was in the air, the brisk fall wind grabbing at his robes, he truly relaxed as he took in the view. It was truly spectacular, with a forest on one side, a giant, a seemingly endless lake on the other, and a stately castle behind him.

“Yes, this is exactly what I needed,” he said to himself. Just him, the sweet fall air, and the girl hurtling past him crying bloody murder. 

Wait. 

The girl in question zipped by him in a series of erratic moves, the broom hurtling upwards before spinning downwards. The witch was a flurry of flapping hair, streaming robes, and shouted invectives.

For a moment, he watched in horrified fascination at what was, quite possibly, the worst flying he had ever seen.

A particularly nasty sideways jigger by the broom caused the incredibly inept girl to almost lose her hold, and Viktor sprung into action, speeding towards her to try and prevent her unseemly—and untimely—demise. 

With an ease born out of years of flying, he came in fast and close to fly by her side, stopping on a knut as he reached out to grab the handle of her broom. 

“Stop struggling,” he instructed, “and the broom will stop resisting.”

Breathless and wild-eyed, she looked at him. “Are you kidding me? The broom is trying to kill me!”

“It’s reacting to your fear,” he told her, nodding at the chokehold she had on it. “If you loosen your grip, it vill settle down.”

Disbelieving, she nevertheless painstakingly (and excruciatingly slowly) relaxed her hands from around the handle. Sure enough, the broom stopped juddering under her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. 

Brown eyes that glinted amber in the sun’s light glared at him. “Of course I would be caught by the bloody international Quidditch star,” she huffed, grabbing on to the broom more tightly than necessary as she perilously wobbled again. “As if this wasn’t already embarrassing enough.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked, slightly disbelieving. 

Pushing back a hank of absolutely out-of-control chestnut hair, the witch looked at him, slightly embarrassed. “I lost a bet, you see,” she explained, “and my punishment was to get on a broom. There’s a  _ reason _ I don’t get on brooms, but do they ever listen? No. Of course they don’t.” 

She sniffed, dainty nose pointed in the air. “I could’ve died, and they’d still all be laughing away at Hermione Granger and the Unfortunate Broom Incident. Anyways, thanks for, er, catching me.” A tight, polite grimace. “I’ll just be going now.”

“Wait—” he called after her, myriad questions at the tip of his tongue. Unfortunately, she was already plodding away, her back straight on the broom in an attempt to be dignified even as she held the handle in an inappropriately tight chokehold yet again. He hadn’t the heart to chase after her, given her obvious mortification, and instead watched her slow, meandering return to the grounds from a distance. 

“Ridiculous,” he murmured as she performed a clumsy dismount. “A true travesty of flying.” 

As he watched her gingerly pick her broom up before heading inside, the image of her hurtling by him in a flurry of flying hair and flapping robes came to the forefront of his mind.

For the first time since he’d come to Hogwarts several weeks ago, he found himself smiling. 

She really was truly wretched at flying. 

o-O-o

Later that evening, he was comfortably ensconced at a table in the library in a place so far out of the way that he wasn’t sure most people knew it existed. He was grateful for its existence as it allowed him to study unmolested; it also afforded a nice view of the Quidditch pitch through a recessed, arched window.

It seemed, however, that his time alone was about to end. For the past fifteen minutes, someone had been watching him. He wasn’t sure who, but he would bet it was one of his extremely persistent fans. However, he wasn’t all that bothered by it since he had managed to get a surprising amount of work done that day, which he attributed it all to his new study space. 

Moments later, his prediction was borne out. A stiff, controlled, and  _ familiar _ voice said, “Excuse me.” 

Slowly, he turned around, and there she was: the girl who had tried her model best to have the first flying death at Hogwarts in 126 years. 

She was actually fairly cute, he noted, now that she wasn’t scared out of her mind and disheveled from being thrown every which way. Her hair, while still a bit crazy, was actually a glorious riot of curls that begged to be pulled so he could see if they sprang back. It framed a thin, somewhat angular face that housed faintly almond shaped eyes with a slight tip up at the edges. The intelligence lurking within them made them sparkle brightly, and he was drawn in despite himself.

“Hello,” he greeted. “It is good to see you on solid ground, yes?”

Almost instantly, her face went up in flames, and the slight tenseness that had been running through her short, lean body ratcheted up. She drew into herself, and the light in her eyes dimmed a little. “Yes. Very nice.” Abruptly, she pointed at one of the tomes on the desk and asked, “Are you using that?”

He frowned, glancing over at the book. “Ah, the treatise on  _ Transfigurations Seen Across the World? _ No. I haff finished vith it.”

“Great. May I please borrow it? I’ve been looking for it for ages.” Her tone implied her minor irritation with the fact. 

“Of course.” He held it out to her and she grabbed it, but he refused to let go, trying to think of a way to speak with her longer and to rid her of her irritation with him. 

As it became clear that he wasn’t going to let go, she looked up from the book to him, and he took his chance. “I am sorry. I haff offended you vith my comment?”

Marginally, her expression softened. “No, I’m sorry,” she apologized after a long moment. “It’s just...it was very embarrassing for anyone to see me that way. I’m really quite terrified of flying, actually, and you’re...well, we all know that you’re not.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yes, but I am bad at other things.” Leaning forward, he said, “I am scared of boggarts.”

Incredulously, she drew back. “ _ Boggarts?” _

Emphatically, he nodded. “Very much.”

“But they’re third year beasts!” she exclaimed. “You can get rid of them easily, just by—” Catching herself, she stopped and bit her lip. “Thanks for telling me that.”

He let go of the book, and she stepped back. “Ve all have our fears, strange and stupid as they might seem. Do not let them get the best of you.”

After a long, assessing look, she slowly inclined her head. “That’s a good point.” And with that, she walked away. 

Viktor stared after her, feeling curiously bereft but slightly intoxicated at the same time. 

Who was she?


	2. Banishing a Boggart (With a Helping - Or Holding) Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is hard and I should really stop promising posting timelines when things continuously seem to conspire against me. Here is chapter two; chapter three will be up shortly.

A few days after Viktor Krum had once again come into her life in an unexpected way, Hermione looked at the short letter she held in her hands and questioned her wisdom in sending it. Was she stupid to think that they could do something like this together? He was good at what she was not, and she was good at what he was not. Together, perhaps, they could overcome their limits. 

But they weren’t friends; in fact, she doubted he even knew her name. Flying was one thing, but a boggart was another. It was personal. Very personal, in fact. To see someone’s greatest fear and to see them struggle against it...she doubted very much that he would want to reveal that to a stranger. 

And yet something compelled her to try. Before she could regret it, she tried the letter to the owl’s leg. “Please deliver this Viktor Krum this morning, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

The tawny owl hooted obligingly, and she gave it a treat and a quick stroke of the head before she departed for breakfast herself. She was so early that barely anyone was there but she was still picking at her breakfast as Harry and Ron appeared. 

“Hey, ‘Mione.” Harry, the more sentient of the two in the mornings, gave her a quick greeting as he prepared his plate. “Early morning?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Worrying about falling off a broom again?” Ron snickered into his porridge and she glared at him so fiercely his smirk fell straight off his face. 

“No,  _ Ronald _ , I wasn’t. I was worried about an essay I’ve got for Arithmancy.” The lie slipped off her tongue rather easily, but she wasn’t about to admit she’d sent a letter to Viktor Krum. If she’d thought the teasing about the flying was bad, she’d never hear the end of becoming another one of the Bulgarian Bon Bon’s conquests.

Her stomach churned as the owls flew in to deliver the morning post. Interestingly, Viktor received far fewer letters than she would have expected, making her wonder if they were screened. He looked at each cursorily, and she knew the moment he saw hers because his brows shot up in unison. An adequate response, she thought, for a letter addressed 

_ To Viktor Krum  _

_ (from broomstick girl) _

His eyes shot over to the Gryffindor table, and she gave a minute shrug and what she hoped was an encouraging glance. 

All that remained now, she thought, was to see if he would take her up on it. 

The day passed by in a blur, where she dutifully took notes, glared at people wearing  _ Potter Stinks! _ badges, and fretted herself into a tizzy. By the time the afternoon came around, she felt more frazzled than usual.

“Hey, ‘Mione?” Harry managed to rouse himself from his position by the fireplace in the common room.

“Yes?” She looked up from where she was furiously scanning a book on boggarts. 

“Everything okay? You’re seeming a bit…”

“Crazed?” Ron provided cheerfully as he kicked his foot against the settee, which he was draped across haphazardly. “Certifiable? Like a complete nutter?”

“Oh, shut it Ron.” Rolling her eyes, she closed the book with rather more force than necessary and stood, smoothing her skirt. “I’m off. See you lot later.”

It wasn’t quite time for dinner, and students were milling about the castle on their way to and from various places. She passed Cedric Diggory, the  _ other _ , more vaunted Hogwarts champion, having what seemed to be a rather fraught conversation with the girl of Harry’s dreams. If Harry had seen the tense, ugly look on her face she was wearing now, Hermione bet that he might not be so keen on her. 

Up she went, crossing stairs and traversing corridors, until she was, at last, in one of the most disused parts of the castle. A perfect place, she knew, for a boggart to hide. 

She knew. She’d checked earlier that morning. 

Her hand lifted to the latch, and she hesitated, unable to push the handle down to go in. Why was she so nervous? It wasn’t like it mattered to her he was famous, so it must be the boggart. But...well, if she was being ruthlessly honest, showing her boggart to someone she hardly knew was a somewhat terrifying thought. She could still hear the laughs and jeers from when she’d encountered it in Professor Lupin’s class last year. It still smarted. 

Well. She threw her shoulders back and exhaled. She wasn’t wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, was she? And who even knew if he was there? This could all easily end up being a big to do about nothing if he didn’t show. 

When the door opened, though, the dim light of the afternoon filtering into the abandoned classroom, he was there. His tall, broad silhouette was framed against the window, which he was standing by with his hands in his pockets. His head turned towards her at the sound of the door, and his mouth quirked. 

“Good evening.”

She bit her lip. “Good evening.”

“So…” he ran his hand over his closely cropped hair. “You face your fears, and I face mine?” His face split into a grin. “A fair trade, but not one I like. For a pretty girl, though...” He shrugged.

Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of his warm chocolate eyes twinkling, and she ruthlessly crushed the feeling within her. There was no place for girlish fancies, not when they were both agreeing to show each other something extremely private about themselves. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked a bit anxiously, having second thoughts. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

He shook his head and came closer. “No. I haff agreed to do this, and ve will make the best of it, you and I.” He sidled a bit closer, still, until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “But I might need...hand holding?” 

She stared at the hand he held up between them and then looked into his eyes. Though his eyes were twinkling, a hint of trepidation lurked within. 

Making a decision, she slapped her hand into his and closed her fingers around it. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you through this,” she declared before adding warningly, I’ll be just as bad, if not worse flying.”

He looked down at her, warm teasing in his eyes. “You hold my hand now, you can hold onto me later.”

The image of her holding onto his waist as they flew into the sunset slammed into her mind with the force of ten books falling on her head from the shelves in the library, and she blinked before flushing scarlet. “Yes. Well. That’s fine,” she managed, then said, “Shall we?”

His eyes narrowed as he followed her gaze. As they walked slowly toward the old cabinet the boggart had taken residence up in, his grip tightened reflexively. “It’ll be fine,” she said soothingly. “Have you dealt with boggarts before?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Once. It vas...unpleasant. Vhen I saw the boggart, my mind...shivered.” He paused, searching for the word. “Froze. The spell to get rid of it is simple. But I vas small, and did not have a vand. It vas a long time before they found me.”

Her heart clenched at his confession. “That is awful, Viktor. Was it so terrible, what it turned into?”

Shrugging, he rolled his shoulders a little bit. “Fairly terrible for anyone, I think. For me, my worst fear. It is what a boggart is, yes?”

She could’ve kicked herself. Of course it was terrible. It was, quite literally, his deepest fear. Exhaling sharply, she threw her shoulders back and let go of his hand. “Well then,” she told him, “it’s best if I go first then, right? Then you’ll see it’s not so bad. And you’ll see my boggart first, so you won’t have to worry about what I see with yours.”

His face softened. “That is...very kind of you.”

“Yes, well, I’m the one who agreed to do this. Facing our fears together, and all that rot.” 

With a fairly steady hand, she aimed her wand at the cabinet. “ _ Alohamora! _ ”

A whirling dervish swept out of the cabinet, turning and heaving until it separated into two distinct figures. Helen Granger, poised and perfect with her hair up in a chignon and immaculately clothed in a smart dress, stood next to her father, also similarly attired. 

This, she thought distantly, was not at all what had happened last year, and it must have been a result of her summer vacation in France with them. 

“A daughter?” Daddy looked over at her, his tone disinterested. “Whyever would I need one of those? All I need is my Nell.”

“Besides,” her mother added, “if we had a daughter, she wouldn’t be  _ you _ . She’d be far more like us. Muggle, for one, and fashionably inclined. I couldn’t ever take a dowdy, frumpy little thing like you with me out into society.”

Her wand hand felt frozen by her side, and she stared at them, transfixed. “But Mother...Daddy, I tried so hard.”

“Herm-i-ninny, don’t listen to them. Cast the spell!” Behind her, Viktor’s voice urged her on.

Her mother huffed, crossing her arms. “And you think that’s enough? When you’re starting like  _ that _ ?” Her disdainful gaze raked her daughter head to foot.

Shaking, her hand came up. “ _ Riddikulus.”  _ It was hard to think of what could make her parents seem, well, ridiculous. They were just so...perfect. Everything she was not. Their words echoed in her ears as she searched for an image, and finally one came to her. “ _ Riddikulus!”  _ she said more strongly. 

A light streaked from her wand and hit the boggart. Moments later, her parents were in a state of complete chaos as they ran around the room in brightly colored mismatched clothes and missing shoes as a flock of geese chased them. 

A snort escaped her despite herself, and then a giggle. Truly, they looked horrible. At the sound, the boggarts  _ cracked! _ and collapsed back into a black, amorphous blob as it fled back into the cabinet. 

Her shoulders unwound as it disappeared, and she let out a long breath. Wow. Her parents. Truly, she would never have thought. But she supposed their indifference and seeming disappointment in her over the summer was explanation enough for why her boggart had changed. She tried so very hard to please them, and it was never quite enough. 

“So.” she turned and faced Viktor, who was wide eyed and solemn. “That’s that, then! Not too bad.” Her smile felt bright and false. 

“You fear your parents...also?” His voice was low.

Also? She came closer and took up his hand again, though this time she held it between both of hers. “Your boggart is also your parents?”

He nodded. 

“How awful.” Squeezing his hand, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Viktor. It’s...well, to be honest, that was horrible. My boggart used to be something else.” Inspiration struck, and she threw herself to the wolves as she confessed, “Last year, it was one of the professors telling me I had failed all my classes.”

Incredulously, he stared at her for a long moment before he began to laugh. The sound was warm and full, and it washed over her until she felt slightly less wretched about the whole thing. “So,” she ventured a bit cheekily a moment later, “perhaps yours has also changed?”

His laughter quieted down until it trailed off. “I do not think so, but ve shall see, yes?”

He strode towards the cabinet, his boots clicking against the stone floors. There was a fraught silence, and she watched as his nostrils flared and his free hand tapped anxiously against his thigh. 

For all his bravery in the air, and all his notoriety on the ground, Viktor really was well and truly terrified of his boggart, she realized. Sincerely, deeply scared.

It was on the tip of her tongue to call it all off when his wand whipped up and he snarled, “ _ Alohamora!”  _

As the boggart flew out and began to take form, she streaked forward and took his hand. At his sideways look, she stubbornly said, “Promises are promises. We’ll do this together.”

In response, his hand adjusted around hers to grip it more securely **,** and they faced the boggart as it coalesced into a tall, formidable man with patrician features and a sneer that seemed carved onto his face. His robes, a dark, olive green, hung around him in crisp lines, and his hands were gloved in black leather. 

“My son,” he began menacingly, disdain dripping from the words. “The disgrace. The one who never does as I instruct, who would rather ride brooms and chase after a golden snitch instead of attending to his duties as he should.”

Next to her, Viktor made a mute sound of protest deep in his chest. 

“It’s not real,” she tried to reassure him. “Cast the spell Viktor, and get rid of him.”

“Having to rely on a little girl to get the job done?” His father scoffed. “Why am I unsurprised. You’re incapable. Truly, sometimes I wonder if Milena had an affair before you were born, because I can’t fathom how you could be mind. Kosta is perfect. You…” he arched a brow. “You’re just worthless to the family.”

“The  _ spell _ , Viktor!” she tugged on his hand harder, which seemed to draw his attention. His eyes flitted over to hers, before snapping back. Even as he visibly strained against the weight of the accusations thrown against him, she saw him gird himself and bring his wand up. “ _ Riddikulus.” _

Just as had happened with her, his first attempt had no success. “Think of something that takes his power away,” she encouraged. “Think of him doing something truly stupid, or that would make him an idiot. You’ve got this, Viktor. You can do it!”

He squeezed her hand and moved closer to her. He took a deep breath and closed his eyesight. An instant later, his eyes snapped open. “ _ Riddikulus.”  _

The laugh that escaped her moments later was involuntary. “I feel like I should feel somewhat offended,” she said between giggles as they looked at the image of his father hanging off a broom while it whizzed around the room and he screamed like a—well, like her, actually. 

Viktor’s warm laugh joined hers moments later, and shortly thereafter the boggart fled back into the cabinet. 

“There,” she said, satisfied. “You vanquished that boggart easy as pie.”

His hand slid up her arm and squeezed her shoulder as he looked into her eyes. Unaccountably, she warmed as he said, “All thanks to you.” 

She bit her lip. “I was just moral support.”

“Necessary support,” he corrected. 

They walked towards the exit of the room, and with a start, she realized their hands were still comfortably tangled together. Quickly, she removed her hand from his grip, using it to comb back a piece of hair from her face. “Well,” she stammered a little, feeling suddenly and unaccountably shy, “I, um, I’m glad I could help.” 

His teeth flashed in a quick grin that she was beginning to associate with him, and he said, “You’re next, broomstick girl.”

She groaned, and his laugh followed her out of the room. 


	3. In Which "Flying High" Can Mean Multiple Things...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to our tooth-rottingly fluffy end. Please drop a review - I would love to hear your thoughts, but mostly, I hope you all enjoyed!

When Hermione Granger, or “Broomstick Girl”, as she had called herself, had suggested facing their fears together, he had truly felt taken aback given the fact that they hardly knew each other, but she had pointed out that their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other quite well, and she wasn’t wrong. 

The idea of facing his boggart had made his mouth dry and his palms sweat, but he remembered how she had gotten on the broom even when she had so clearly loathed it and had been so afraid. If she could do something she was scared of, then why couldn’t he?

Furthermore, it gave him the opportunity to spend more time with her, the girl with crazy hair and determination running through her veins. (If pressed, he might admit that this, rather than personal growth, was his main motivation for agreeing to her proposition.)

Facing the boggart had been just as frightening as he had expected. The last time he had dealt with one, he had been a small boy of nine who stumbled upon it in one of the lesser used rooms in the manor. His fears had been different, then, but he had been alone, and the boggart had tortured him relentlessly for quite some time before someone had found him and banished it.

Watching her banish it back into the cabinet had shown him that it was a weak, pitiable creature that fed off others’ insecurities and fears. He could easily face what his mind had built up into something much more fearsome than reality. Additionally, having her there beside him as an active reminder that he wasn’t alone that time had been a much bigger help than he had anticipated. 

Something he found himself dwelling on was the fact that Hermione’s boggart was so similar to his own. It made Viktor feel better, somehow. He was not quite as  _ lesser _ , and not quite as cowardly, to fear his father, he felt, when she so clearly feared her own parents as well. They all had vulnerable spots, and it just so happened that theirs were similar. 

The next morning, after a brief dip in the lake, he was struck by inspiration and hastily scribbled out a quick note to be delivered to her. He was excited for breakfast, regardless of the fact that he would have to listen to the Malfoy boy’s grandstanding yet again, and felt himself fairly thrumming with excitement for the post to arrive. 

Again and again, his eyes slid to her as she sat in her seat. She was animatedly discussing something with the red headed girl sitting next to her, although her friend looked half asleep. From her geticulations, it looked like she was describing some kind of magical transformation. It was either that, or a very bad pantomime about a bad encounter with a pot. Whatever it was, her hair was still wild, her eyes were bright, and she looked extremely fetching as she went on.

As soon as the post came, his stomach tumbled over itself and he couldn’t even pretend to be eating any longer. Even as he mechanically spooned in another mouthful of porridge, his eyes were fastened to her place. Her eyebrows rose as an owl deposited a letter in front of her, and he watched as she carefully opened it and just as carefully uncreased it. For a moment, her eyes scanned the letter, and then her mouth dropped open slightly and she looked up at him. 

Trying not to be obvious, he waggled his eyebrows and gave her a thumbs up. Her mouth pressed together in response, and for a moment he thought she was mad. A bare instant later, however, her cheeks creased in a huge smile and her shoulders began to shake in laughter. The red head sitting next to her suddenly looked much more alert, asking her what was so funny, but Hermione shook her head and put his note away. 

He felt the familiar fizzy delight of success traveling through his veins and knew, without a doubt, that he wanted to make her laugh that way again. 

He was still riding high that afternoon as he tramped outside with his broom shrunk into the inside pocket of his robes, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. If she was able to make it, she would meet him by the edge of the lake close to the trees, a spot somewhat out of view of the castle and the boat. If she were going to face her fears, he figured, it would be nice to do so out of the view of the general public. 

Leaning against the trunk of a tree, he crossed his arms and settled in to wait, hoping she would come. 

Time passed, and then more time passed, and as the sun began to sink behind the horizon he finally became convinced that she would not come. His shoulders sank, and he headed back along the edge of the lake towards the ship. 

As he rounded the far curve, he saw a lone form heading towards him, familiar Hogwarts robes sweeping out behind them as they approached at a fast clip. His heart leapt in his chest and his pace quickened. Was it her? Had she come?

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized breathlessly as soon as she was in earshot. “I was delayed—I wouldn’t have missed it—”

“Do not vorry,” he cut in. “It’s okay.” Glancing up at the receding sun, he asked, “Do you still vish to fly today?”

She bit her lip, looking longingly toward the castle before turning back to him. “If I don’t do it today, I’m not sure I’ll ever do it.”

He laughed. “You haff already done it before. I saw.”

“That was more of a fluke that occurred in a fit of adolescent fury than anything else.” Her shoulders slumped. “I was on the broom hurtling through the air before my sanity caught up with me, and by then I was completely out of control. Truly, Viktor, I’m not sure I can get on a broom when I’m in my right mind.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said encouragingly. “Ve vill conquer this together.”

He led her back to the spot he had picked out earlier in the day, chattering all the while about the history of brooms and how they worked. He had the feeling that knowing something about the way they worked would be of value to her. She had been extremely prepared for facing the boggart, after all, and he had heard ad nauseum from the Malfoy boy about her high marks as he groused about her beating him. 

Sure enough, she relaxed as she took in the mechanical workings of broom, and soon enough she was engrossed in their conversation. So engrossed, in fact, that he had enlarged his broom and was standing by it by the time she realized what he had done. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, patting his broom. “Haff you brought your broom?”

Her expression was pinched. “I have done, yes.” She pulled out a miniaturized broom and enlarged it with a somewhat mournful face.

Struggling to keep from laughing at her positively funereal visage, he guided his broom closer to hers. “I know that you know the actual basics, such as  _ up _ for summoning it off the ground, but I vanted to spend some time talking about proper mounting technique.” Easily, he explained the particulars, such as making sure she had one foot properly placed on the foothold and at least one hand on the grip before she attempted doing it. 

Feeling her watchful gaze on his form as he demonstrated how to mount and dismount, he felt the tips of his ears burning. Her gaze was so incisive and intense that it would have made a lesser boy quiver. Instead, all he felt were the burning embers of interest coiled in his belly as his interest in her made itself known to him. Would she kiss with the same focus? 

His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought, but he was distracted as she yelped when the broom moved under her hand.

“I really don’t think I can do this,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “Honestly, last week was a fluke. I’m complete rubbish.”

Dismounting his broom, he made his way over to her and gripped its hand, his firm touch making it quiescent. “Do not let fear control you. You are a powerful vitch. Show the broom that you are the one in charge, not it.”

She bit her lip but gripped the handle again, her foot lodging securely against the stirrup. With one motion, she mounted the broom and sat on the cushion of air fashioned as a seat. Under his hand, the broom jolted and juddered a little, but he merely tightened his hold and it settled down. 

“I’ve gotten it!” she said excitedly, her eyes glittering with excitement. The light of the deepening sunset glinted off her curls, and he caught his breath. She was luminescent. 

“Excellent. The next thing will be flying.”

And just like that, her victory fell off her face. Reassuringly, he patted her shoulder. “Don’t vorry,” he told her. “I vill be next to you the entire time. Ve haff all the time in the world. Ve vill go slowly and with great caution.”

Slowly, he instructed her on the correct flying posture, including how to hold the broom assertively but without creating a chokehold that interrupted the flow of her magic into the broom. After all, that had been her primary problem in maintaining control when he had first seen her disastrous attempt at flying and so necessitated the most attention. 

As he coached her through things, he realized that there was something immensely satisfying about watching her truly prodigious mind grasp on the concepts he presented to her. At first, she was hesitant and unsure, but as he led and as she followed, the spark he had seen so often in her eyes had returned and she slowly became more engaged, until finally…

“Viktor, am I flying?” She gaped down at the ground, which was a comfortable five metres below them. 

He stifled a laugh. “You haff  _ been _ flying for the last ten minutes.”

Perplexed, she tilted her head. “That’s impossible. I couldn’t have...really?”

He nodded. “And nothing terrible has happened,  _ da _ ?”

“I...I never really believed that this was possible.” Almost reverently, she stroked the broom handle before looking at him. “I’ve always failed at flying, which I felt was one of the most basic aspects of being a witch. Everyone could fly. Even Harry, who was just like me—a muggleborn who had never even heard of magic before—flew so easily. I felt like there was something wrong with me, you know? Just another sign that I….that I didn’t fit in. That I wasn’t a true witch.”

At her confession, his heart clenched. He could imagine a younger version of her, bright-eyed and eager to learn the skill so widely used throughout the wizarding world. The idea of her trying to master something considered as an easy skill suitable to young witches and wizards and failing without understanding why made him upset, especially since she had likely failed in some spectacular fashion that caused her to be afraid of flying. 

“You are certainly a true vitch,” he assured her. “Being able to fly does not make you more a vitch than being able to brew potions, for example. You haff many skills that show your abilities. I haff,” he added wryly, “heard much about them.”

She pink flushed to the roots of her hair. “Really?”

He nodded. “Malfoy is very...vocal.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’m sure he is. He hates everything about me.”

Privately, Viktor wondered if Malfoy’s strange fixation on Hermione had less to do with hatred and more to do with bottled up attraction, but if the platinum-haired pureblood insisted on whinging about how Hermione had scored higher than him again in Charms instead of doing something about it, it wasn’t Viktor’s prerogative to change it. 

In fact, he would prefer no competition whatsoever. 

“From vhat I can, there’s not much to hate about you,” he murmured, flying in closer until their legs were in danger of touching. “You haff accomplished much, from vhat I have heard, and you are very beautiful. I find it hard to belieff that you are not spoken for.”

Subtly, he angled them so they moved towards the lake, eager to show her how beautiful flying over the water at sunset could be. All the colours of the sky reflected on the surface like shards of coloured glass. 

“Spoken for?” she repeated, a slight tilt of inquiry in her voice. 

“Ah…” he searched for the word. “ _ Ukhazhvam _ ? I think it is courting?”

“Oh. Oh! You mean dating!” Slender fingers tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before returning to their hold on the broom. “No...nobody would want to date me.”

He found that highly unlikely, but it was possible that all Hogwarts students were just that stupid to miss such a treasure in their midst. (Well, except Malfoy, but he was too caught up in his land of denial to say anything, so he didn’t count.)

Pity for them.

“If someone were to want to date you, as you say, how vould they ask to do so? Vhat are the good places to do such things around here?”

Completely oblivious to his implied interest, Hermione blithely replied, “Oh, Hogsmeade! There’s a village nearby that we can go to on the weekends sometimes, and often couples will go together. It’s common for people to ask each other to go to Honeydukes as a first date. Often, they’ll go to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

Noting her slight moue of distaste at the name, he asked, “You don’t like it?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not particularly. It’s very...pink. And lacey.”

Well, that sounded horrible, so that was out. 

“So if not there, then where vould you go or like to do on such a date? Perhaps the bookstore?” he teased gently. 

She slid him a look, although she did pause thoughtfully. “I would imagine it didn’t matter much to me so long as I got to spend time with them, although the bookstore would be nice. And honestly, if we didn’t go to Madam Puddifoot’s, that would be quite fine with me.”

He was surprised at her answer. Most girls would have a detailed plan or idea of what they would enjoy, but she seemed rather open to anything so long as she got to spend time with her would-be swain. It was nice that she was flexible, given that he would hate to be so public in his affections. While the press was an issue, he truly preferred more private venues overall. 

His heart beat faster and his legs tightened against the broom in anticipation. “Vould you be interested in going on a date with me?” he asked. “Ve could have a picnic by the lake perhaps? Or view the stars together?”

She stared at him for so long he began to shift uncomfortably. Was his request so out of hand? “Ve haff conquered our fears together,” he felt compelled to add, though his nerves made his English tangle a bit, “and I find your company very pleasing. You make me courageous. So I am courageous now and hope for the best,  _ da _ ? Please?”

“You really mean it? It’s not some kind of...prank?”

He drew back in offense. “A prank? I assure you—”

“It’s only that you’re Viktor Krum,” she hastened to add, “and I’m just frizzy know-it-all Hermione Granger.” 

In her words, he heard a wealth of injury accumulated over years of teasing. It made him soften in his reply. “It is no joke. I like you, and I am hoping that you could, maybe, like me?”

Her smile was slow in coming and shy, but it lit up her face. “I do. And I would like that very much Viktor. If the offer is still open.”

“It is,” he told her promptly.

“Then yes. I would like that very much.”

He refrained from doing something extremely stupid like a loop de loop in celebration, choosing instead to channel his excitement through his smile. Her expression went a bit dazed at that, and he gloated inwardly. 

Yes, she did, in fact, like him.

That gave him enough courage to (rather daringly) brush her hair back from her face when they dismounted from their brooms awhile later, and he relished her slight shiver as his fingertips skated across her skin.

Her shiver of delight was much the same a few weeks later when he cornered her in the dusty corner of the library and slowly, carefully cupped her face in his large hands before settling his mouth over hers.

“Viktor,” she breathed, moments later, her slim fingers coming to clasp his wrists, “we’re supposed to be finding books on dancing. I’m terrified I’ll mess up.”

He chuckled and nuzzled his nose against hers affectionately. “Don’t be afraid. Ve haff conquered much vorse fears than that.”

She gave him that small, private smile that he had started to think of as his—that slight quirk of her lips, her eyes soft and luminous—and carded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before shyly bestowing a kiss made sweeter by its briefness. “That’s true. We are a rather good team, aren’t we?”

He tangled their fingers together and kissed her knuckles before bringing her hand to rest on his heart. “Yes. Yes, ve are.”


End file.
